A Calling
by Der Drache der Himmel
Summary: This is for an old movie . . . as in, from the nineteen thirties. But I love it. ^-^ Try and figure out what it's for, before the end; but even if you do find out what it's for, and you've never seen it, it doesn't have much to do with that movie. I just


  
The golden morning peeking over the horizon with all the caution of a young child had promised that the day would be a nice one; the rapidly lightening sky denoted the fact that no storm clouds would threaten the earth that day. And so the morning rose and stretched, spreading its multicolored fingers of light first across the horizon, then the sky which was quickly losing its shade of velvet black and blue to the lighter hue of the sky on a clear day. Under the sun's watchful gaze, the land began to brghten, causing its inhabitants to stir and wake.   
She had not been one of those. She had woken up much earlier, when the velvet night-time had still held dominion over the land; she liked it when it was dark. It allowed her to think more freely.   
She stretched, yawning, realizing just how long she had been awake. She wouldn't have any trouble falling asleep tonight; for once, she might get a decent night's rest. That would truly be a blessing to her, seeing as how the majority of her life she had been plagued by insomnia, and some urge that she couldn't explain: all it said was -wait-. And so she did, staying up most of the time and waiting for something she didn't understand, and she had never found it, either.   
But perhaps she was closer this time . . .   
Some strange, unknown force had drawn her to this little town, stuck right in the middle of nowhere; as far as she knew, it wasn't on any maps. But then again, she had never been of a map reader, so that was a possible reason as to why she had never found it on any chart.   
She sighed, recalling the older days; how she had always been outcast at school, although her teachers thought her quite brilliant in all areas other than map reading- at that, she had been average. She remembered how the other children shunned her continually, because she was of higher intelligence of them, so they claimed; but she knew it was something else. She could read it in the way that their eyes had always shifted off to one side when she had managed to get something out of them. And even if they DID manage to find a "reason" as to why they ignored her, it was always quite obvious that it had been concocted on the spot, even though the one making it up didn't think it quite that way. However, when she had nearly managed to get something more out of them, they would sneer at her, saying, "Back off, creep. Nobody likes you because you're YOU."  
And they would run off.   
She had thought that it might have something to do with her parents; after all, she had never heard from her father, and it caused pain something terrible to her poor mother, who had to raise her only daughter all alone. Her mother was the only one who truly understood the reason why she had been outcast by everyone, throughout all of her life. Her strange daughter would only look up at her with pleading green-brown eyes, and then the mother would break into great fits of tears and lock herself in her room.   
But now her poor mother was dead, may she rest in peace; she had died of a broken heart at the age of forty-two. How her beautiful, tormented mother had managed to live that long after the incident that caused her to become so sensitive was anyone's guess; apparently, she had been stronger mentally than anyone had thought. But it was still not enough to stop her from weeping at the slightest thing that apparently reminded her of something, presumably the past occurrence that had caused her to be that way.   
Now her daughter could only wonder why her mother had never told her . . .   
She shook her head; she was a mature young woman now. There was no reason for her to stick her blond-haired head into the past, because the past only brought pain for her. All that mattered to the young woman with the green-brown eyes was that she answered the call that rang fleetingly inside of her head.   
She sighed now; there was nothing much she could do in her life, because the type of person she was was not appreciated. Everyone told her she had a brilliant scientific mind . . .   
That had always been her best subject- science, or, more specifically, chemistry. Her remarkable memory could always recall what she had been taught without a bit of trouble; and whenever they worked with chemicals as her school life progressed, she had always been the most successful, finishing the experiment first and often being called upon by the teacher to help some of the other students. She had learned most of what she knew from her mother, who had, in turned, learned it from her father.   
Oh, but she had found out once that he was not her real father. Her mother had once wrote in a diary about "finding a little girl on my doorstep . . . and I could not help but pity her, and so took her as my own . . ."   
She didn't know who her real father was.   
But she remembered one, vague thing about her adopted father: the only time she had ever seen him, his entire head had been swathed in bandages, and you couldn't see his eyes because of a pair of dark glasses that he constantly wore.   
That was all she knew about him.   
She didn't even know what happened to him; all she remembered was that one day, he stopped coming. Her mother never said why; if her daughter asked, then the older blond-haired woman would only burst into tears.   
Did that mean that he was dead?  
Perhaps she would find out; after all, she didn't even know what drew her to this town. It could've been the fact that her father was buried there, if he was dead after all; but how could she know? As stated, she only had one memory of him, and it was so foggy that she couldn't even tell if it were real, or just something from a dream.   
Because she did know that she had dreams about someone like that . . .   
Her dream from the previous night was an example. She could remember that she had been standing, all alone, in a great dark room that seemed to have no ceiling or walls; and, as she was in that blackness, she heard a voice calling her name. It had sounded as though the person was right behind her, beckoning her with such a soft and gentle voice, so wonderful, that she couldn't resist the urge to answer the call. She spun around, but saw no one; and she heard her name again. She continued in a circle, until she was too dizzy to keep spinning- that was when she stopped.   
It was also when she saw who had been beckoning her . . .   
It was the man from her memory.   
She wondered now if she had dreamed about her father; but she didn't know, because there had been more to the dream that had explained all of it, but she could only remember part of that. It was nothing more than the name of a cemetery, which turned out to be in the town in which she was currently residing. It was at the very outskirts, on the side farthest from her; it wouldn't be much of a day's journey, even if she was to take it on foot.   
But she still had a long day ahead of her.   
And so she watched in silence as the sun rose, lightening the sky with the arrival of the day.   
She sighed.   
***  
Curious glances were cast at the young woman walking by, who was dressed in a long black overcoat unbefitting of the fine day; some people even remembered the events surrounding a stranger who had come to their town dressed the same way, many years back, because of how strangely familiar the girl looked. But that was all they remembered; everyone knew she had never been to that place before. The other stranger had been a man, whose entire head was swathed in bandages . . .   
Her long blond hair fell down her back, scattering itself over the long overcoat; its golden strands reached a few inches beyond shoulder length. Her strange green-brown eyes were cast downward as she walked along, not seeming to notice anybody, and yet never colliding with anything; perhaps she was paying more attention than they initially thought. In any case, she did make quite a strange sight to behold as she strode purposfully down the street, her long strides being thrown out in such a fashion that it was quite amazing she did not fall over. All the young men wondered why she wore so much; and all the young women shared the same mindset. Adults would just attempt to go about their business, although they would not-so-discreetly turn their children away and usher them off. Only the older ones remembered the other stranger, so many years back.   
She did not seem to care what anybody else thought.   
All in all, though, she cast quite a pervasive atmosphere about her, one that managed to draw every eye on her, even though people would eventually turn away; she never bothered to look at them. She apparently had somewhere to go, and was bound and determined to reach her destination.   
The first place she stopped was at a florist's booth, one that was selling its wares on the street; as she approached it, people began to clear away, forming an aisle for her to walk down, and she was seemingly oblivious to the people staring on either side. She strode up until she was standing directly before the booth, and across from its owner, before beginning to speak.   
"I would like to purchase a rose, please."  
The florist scrambled to fulfil her order, searching over his booth for one; and the crowd marvelled at her voice, so quiet and distinctive, and yet with enough of an assertive touch to it that it made it extraordinary. When the owner of the booth had found one, he informed her how much it would cost in a voice with a distinctive edge of fear to it. The young woman reached a slender hand down into one of her pockets, managing to scrounge up enough money for her purchase; as soon as the rose was in her hand, she turned and strode off.   
The people waited until she was out of earshot before beginning to speak of her.   
Apparently, she hadn't noticed the deathly silence that had met her as she had strode toward the florist's booth. Perhaps she was accustomed to it . . .   
When all was said and done, though, she didn't seem to notice anything, so not seeming to care about everyone's seeming fear of her wasn't particularly out of the ordinary.   
All she did was continue to walk down the street.   
It wasn't long before she was on the far outskirts of the town, where the small cemetery was located; now, the only thing keeping her from answering the call inside of her head was a rusty gate that refused to open.   
She simply vaulted the wrought-iron fence.   
After she did so, she wondered how she had managed to pull the stunt off; it had been forever since she had done something even vaguely gymnastic. She was strong, true, but never much of one to go about jumping fences and the like; but then again, she had never been very ladylike, and was accustomed to doing tricks usually reserved for boys.   
She reflected on this as she roamed aimlessly through the rows of headstones; but she also recalled that even the boys wouldn't befriend her, but instead let her hang at their outskirts and imitate them, and had always been secretly shocked at how apt she was at learning things, either mentally or physically.   
When, at one point, she stopped, she thought about how the headstones of people's graves sometimes reflected upon their personality.   
There were angels with their arms and wings outstretched, keeping watch over the one deceased; those usually belonged to the religious ones, but not always. There were large slabs of rock that only had names written on them, and were quite imposing; and still, there were a host of small crosses, and pieces of stone that held no particular shape and paid humble homage to the one whose grave they marked.   
She started walking again.   
She wasn't much of one to think about such morbid things as how a headstone sometimes reflected upon people; she was more of a scientific mind who was always craving answers. Whenever her mother wasn't in a fit of tears, she would always say how her little daughter would one day be famous. Her mother wasn't the only person who believed that; all of her teachers told her she had a brilliant scientific mind, and would be one day known around the world.   
Perhaps she believed them; perhaps she did not. She could never really tell; she could never really tell anything, but set up the facade to the outside world that she was indifferent to most anything.   
She stopped walking.   
Before her was a small headstone, which had obviously seen its share of the wind and weather; certain aspects of it couldn't be read. She fell to her knees as she realized that she had just answered the call she had felt all of her life.   
"I came," she whispered, "just as I promised I would."  
She was met by silence.   
Standing up again, she spoke; but this time, her voice was louder.   
"Mother never believed me when I said that you were calling me. She would cry, though; I imagine she loved you very much. I'm sure I would've, too, but I only have one memory of you, and it was just pictorial; I never heard you, or met you, and yet I still feel drawn to you."  
Pause.   
"I saw you in my dreams," she continued, "although I'm certain you knew that. They were always happy dreams, and they were always the same: you would beckon me, even though I couldn't see you. Now I understand why."  
She was once again greeted by the silence of the churchyard; nothing stirred.   
She fell to her knees once again.   
"For quite some time in my life, I felt it was my calling to follow in your footsteps; after all, all of my teachers told me I was a brilliant scientist, and that I was quite apt at chemistry in particular. They often called on me to aid the children who didn't have a clue as to what they were doing . . ."  
Her tone changed to one of bitterness.   
"The children always outcast me, and being called on to tutor them in the aspects of chemistry didn't help me any. They only thought I was more of a freak of nature when I did understand everything; they never could fully grasp the aspects of such a wonderous science, one that can both save lives and destroy them, although I never much interested myself in the branch of destruction. Sometimes, though, it was curiously tantalizing, especially when they were all particularly mean to me . . ."  
She stopped herself, allowing the silence to draw in once more.   
"But then again, why destroy life? You will only bring pain to yourself as well . . ."  
She gave a bit of a bitter laugh.   
"I suppose I should not be speaking to you on the aspects of destroying life? Now that I know who you are, I mean.."  
The silence reigned again.   
She sighed.   
"I know why I am like I am now . . . because of you. I subconsciously copied your traits, I suppose; after all, I never truly met you, but I vaguely recall seeing you . . ."  
Pause . . .  
" . . . but never your face. And I understand why, now; but, strangely enough, there is an image forming in my head, and I am sure it is of you . . . before all of this happened . . ."  
She was oddly calm for so strange an incident occurring to her.   
"And if it is you, then I must add that, even in so strange an occurrence, you are quite handsome; a pity I never saw you like that in real life . . ."  
The young woman stood up again, but not before laying her burden at the foot of the headstone. The rose's dark crimson bloom stood out in shocking contrast to the monotone hues of gray so ever-present in the small churchyard; like her, it seemed outcast, something that always appeared to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.   
But she was not going to reflect on that now; it would do nicely to pass the time later.   
Staring down at the small headstone with its crimson flower, huddled against the ravages of time and tide, she said a few last words:   
"How I wish it could have ended differently."  
She turned away.   
As she walked out of the churchyard, feeling so empty, she noticed that her hands were beginning to fade away. She had known it was going to happen; the extremeties of the body always went first, and, luckily for her, every bit of it went slowly. The young woman pulled on a pair of gloves she had brought with her, and shoved her slender hands down into the deep pockets of the overcoat.   
She began to walk more quickly, and, after vaulting the wrought-iron fence, turned back to face the grave and its single red rose. She turned her green-brown eyes briefly upwards; the sky was an angry gray now, for stormclouds had been gathering as she had been speaking. What an apt time for a storm to arise.   
The blond-haired one turned her eyes back to the grave, whispering, "Until we meet again; farewell for now, Jack Griffin, my father . . ."  
She spun around silently and began to walk away.   
And her only answer was the first splatter of rain falling from the sky, running down the headstone and taking dominion over the crimson rose. 


End file.
